


ichi-go ichi-e

by forochel



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Epistolary, Honeymoon, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 12:38:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: Viktor writes love letters: one for every stop on their first honeymoon.





	ichi-go ichi-e

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired by Ruth Reichl's first husband, who did this exact thing on their honeymoon.

* * *

__

_Somewhere on the Nile, April 2022_

Darling Yuuri, sweet and soft in your sleep as you lie here next to me. You would never believe me, I know, not until the thousandth crane I fold perhaps, but I adore your sleepy snuffles. I hope to be there when they turn into snores, and when we both sound like trains in our old age. So unattractive — so this must be love, yes? I also know that you will say it is sleep apnea, and probably we will both have contraptions to help ease our breathing.

I love how you let me love you, how you want me to love you: midday, shameless. Do you suppose the innocent Egyptians by the riverside guessed what we were up to? Or perhaps many have emulated Hadrian and his beloved Antinous. I am glad we can both swim, darling.

These curtains do seem more for vanity than otherwise. You complain so about the morning light filtering through them, but I am grateful. Otherwise you would not turn your head, your whole self into my side. I wish I could keep you here always. 

But where was I, sweet Yuuri, snuffling into your pillow? You must be worn out; it is evening now. I will take a picture of the sunset for you. We are idling along the Nile on my cousin’s pleasure boat, and what pleasures we have had. Alexandria, Cairo. The Bibliotheca, which you let me spend half the day in. Getting lost in the narrow streets of old Cairo.

In this room, by that window, on those cushions. Your balance constantly astounds me, darling, and the way we fit together. It is a glorious sight, to have you in my lap, your thighs about my hips, your chest flushed and damp before my face. Your face, looking like you’re in the agonies of ecstasy. Me, having brought you there.

If I were to press my fingers to you, would you still be wet? 

Yes, I think so. I think I shall find out now, darling, and dinner can wait.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Serifos, April 2022_

I don’t think I shall ever get used to the way surprise breaks over your face, солнышко, nor do I want to. When we got to my sister’s flat in Athens, a rest after that — yes, all right, ill-considered ferry journey from Alexandria, before we carried on.

When I said we might perhaps go to Mykonos, Santorini, Crete — you wrinkled your nose so, and told me to choose one. Slowly, slowly. We have spent enough of our lives shuttling around, haven’t we? 

So here we are, in syrupy sleepy Serifos that I read about in a book. (I am sorry, love, that our luggage is a quarter books now.)

It is mythic here, almost — not my myths, nor yours — see the rocks tumbling white and green into the sea. There are no golden apples for the picking, but I would give one to you anyway. 

You gave me a secret smile when we arrived here, said thank you in our language of limbs and touch. I think you will ask why, so: I cannot paint or draw, so words will have to do. 

The remnants of our lunch on the table: honey and figs and goat cheese, warm and fresh. Bread. (I think it will be two more days before you complain for want of rice.) Half a bottle of coppery wine left: our hosts’ own. The wine-dark sea reflected in your eyes, my darling. Olives picked fresh. The heavy sun-drenched air perfumed by oranges and wild herbs crushed under careless feet. Up here, the island spread out beneath us, the sea hazing into the purple horizon: I am so happy to be here with you. I have been so fortunate for all my life, and yet I do not feel that I ever truly lived until I met you. It is easier for me to say this written here; but by now I know you would not mind. 

I am enjoying being unselfish, Yuuri, and enjoying giving all this to you. I would lay the world out at your feet if I could.

You might say the sea air has brined my brain, but you have already done so for me. 

— I mean the world, darling, not the brining.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Rome, April 2022_

Third time’s the charm, darling, and I look forward to your face when we arrive in Granada — when you realise, perhaps, that I mean to keep this up for every place we visit. Every single place on this honeymoon, and all the ones after. 

It does seem recursive, I know, to have retraced our footsteps back to Rome after fleeing it for Alexandria right after the banquet. But now we are all alone in this city: no stray acquaintances to run into, the foreign fans all gone. Hypocrite, I think you are saying to yourself now; but this is a special time, my love. I feel ungenerous with your time, and your presence.

Do you think Yurio would like a gladiatoral programme? It would suit him — perhaps he could play the part of the beast instead. The Coliseum was strange. It did not feel quite honest: I have heard there is another, smaller, outside Sevilla. Perhaps we could go there before Granada. 

Speaking of honesty: I am sorry, darling; it has been years and still I am trying to be honest as you deserve. Though — no, I am also trying to improve at apologies. I should have noticed that the crowds and the sun in St Peter’s were getting too much. Too much in one day. And I, too impatient and unwilling to admit it. 

I hope your walk is a good one, right now. Rome on a spring evening is lovely. Perhaps you have walked to the Pantheon? This hotel I chose because it is so close by to all the ruins, but still this street is quiet, and there is a very good trattoria tucked away down a street — at the foot of the stairs next to our hotel. Oh, I must show you Chris’s favourite fountain. It is somewhere ... north, and the best espresso in Rome is nearby. All we need do is follow our noses.

Darling Yuuri, I love you - я люблю тебя - あいしてる - ti amo - as eternally as this city.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Granada, May 2022_

Do you know what not-Russian Ivan said to me tonight, darling Yuuri?

He said: you are utterly besotted.

My ears are still ringing from that cave, darling, and the truth of his words.

I love to watch you dance, солнышко; you draw the other dancers into your rhythm, your joy, so that they orbit you. Me too, of course, always: I am blissful Icarus, drawing close to the sun — but you will catch me when I fall, so it is all right. 

And to see you dance is to see you lose yourself; your face, your hands, your hips. There is a poet, Neruda, who once wrote ‘I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes’. I don’t think my hunger for you will ever be sated, my love, especially not tonight: not when you have been whirling about in that red dress, the ribbons of your shoes wound up and around your ankles. I am unashamed to declare my love for your ankles; it will come as no surprise to you, anyway. 

I want to worship you from your toes to the top of your head, to kiss your eyelids and your knees; there is no part of you I do not love, my darling Yuuri, no part that I do not wish to love. I wish to love you well and thoroughly — at the window that looks across the valley at the Alhambra, perhaps. So you can have a view as exquisite as mine: the curve of your back, your ass around my cock, the pink that your ears go. But I think I shall forget, darling, and turn your face away from the white-capped Sierra Nevada to kiss you, to swallow your sweet sounds for myself. 

Or perhaps tonight I will kneel at your feet, your supplicant, with whom to do what you will. 

Oh, the shower is shutting off. I have taken too long to write this letter; I meant to join you earlier. It is good we are here a week and that we have the top floor to ourselves, darling; I do not think we shall be seeing the palaces tomorrow.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_St Emilion, May 2022_

I have so many photographs of you asleep, darling Yuuri, that a museum exhibition could be mounted. But no, these things are private: the soft furrow between your eyebrows, the way your hand curls into the pillow, the lax pout of your mouth. How I wish to kiss you, Yuuri, but it has been tiring, these past few days, hasn’t it? 

We did not think going from chateau to chateau to taste wine would be tiring, and we were not even driving, but there we have it. Monsieur Legavre is my father’s age (of course; they are — acquaintances) and I think he now thinks figure skaters have no stamina. I shall have to take him skating one day, when he visits the family estate. 

But he thinks you sweet and handsome, you know; he told me so. Mon chatounet. And I have told him all about Yuutopia, and the Japanese very much like French wine, apparently — you certainly do, darling — and he may come for a visit one day. I know you dislike not understanding when we speak in French, but then the tables may be turned in Hasetsu. I promise I shall speak to you only in Japanese if we do have a visit. (I hope this little bit of pettiness has made you smile.)

Well, what shall we do on this lazy Saturday? It is almost eleven and I have reserved dinner at a bistrot in the village along with an 09 Cheval Blanc. I promise you’ll like it, Yuuri. It tastes the way you skated Eros: opulent, hedonistic, and as silkily sexy as [PELNOD](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrXS-_cWDf8). We are visiting the chateau on Monday, before driving to Pomerol. I have saved the best (my favourites, of course) for the last of our time in Bordeaux. Ah — perhaps we shall stay in all afternoon, and stroll the village after dinner.

This letter I shall carry with me and slip beneath your pillow in Paris; there is no post today or tomorrow and we shall be in Paris early next week; I do not trust the French post. For this same reason I shall not post you a letter from Paris but write it on your skin. It is not nearly like the one at home. Yes, I am still amazed that the postcard from a little mountaintop village on the Nakasendo arrived in Hasetsu before we did. 

All right, I see your eyelashes fluttering. It is time to give you a proper waking up. 

À toi, pour toujours —  
Viktor

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


_Paris, May 2022_

Vitya, I have written this on waxed paper so that when you cry the words do not smudge. Did you think I wouldn't reciprocate? I love you, I love you, I love you. The paper is from that old map shop we stumbled into when it started raining. I don’t remember it raining in Paris when I had competitions here, but it’s probably a seasonal thing. My - my way of speaking is, like you said, with my body. I can’t make words as poetic as yours, not in English anyway. But I am so happy, you silly, romantic man. I have been so happy these weeks, even when we were fighting. There, I can say it. But we shouldn’t go to Italy again during tourist season. Is there a non-tourist season in Italy? I doubt it. You make me happy, Vitya, do not doubt that. Your letters are ... I will carry them in my heart. This is our second-last night in Paris. This letter will race us back to Hasetsu. And you have fallen asleep. I ... like this too, our nights, when you are sleeping and I am awake. I like the weight of your arm across my lap. I like the way our nights and mornings are mirrors. Your back is terribly scratched up, Vitenka — I am not sorry. You should be delighted to hear that. I am running out of space. We have a proverb: いちごいちえ. It literally means something like, one time one chance. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. But it really means that we should treasure every moment, because it will never happen again in the same way. I really want to cherish all the different moments with you, my love, until time gives us no more.  


I love you - я люблю тебя - 愛してる - ti amo - te amo - je t'aime  
(I copied all of that up to Italian, except the kanji of course)  
Yuuri

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Right, so. the granada bit makes reference to [this tumblr ficlet](https://forochel.tumblr.com/post/161695306127/alykapediaaa-flamenco-for-forochel-bc-there) from ages ago. 
> 
> and okay. the wines. I picked them because ... I like them. and then I looked at a couple of tasting notes:
> 
> "In the wine of Cheval Blanc, you find the sexy, opulence of Pomerol, coupled with the flamboyance of St. Emilion." WHAT THE FUCK, THIS IS VIKTOR. 
> 
> and then the 09 Cheval Blanc was a year picked sort of at random, and then the tasting notes offered up inspiration from the gods:
> 
> "Bottled decadence, and then some. This is so hedonistic, opulent, pure, refined and elegant, it is hard to believe. " & "The fruit is so silky, sexy and sensuous, it's hard not to smile as each sip add more complexities and nuances in its own, hedonistic manner".
> 
> I love wine writers. I stole words 100% & I'm not even ashamed.
> 
> (eta bc I always forget: if you liked this please [reblog on tumblr](https://forochel.tumblr.com/post/164103995742/ichi-go-ichi-e-forochel-yuri-on-ice-anime), thank you! )


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